What I Know: An utterly compelling psychological thriller full of suspense

by Miranda Smith

  “I think Zoey hurt her mom,” I say, knowing it’s my last hope. She thinks the Darcy attack is unlikely, and she deems the cat incident a coincidence. I can see it in her eyes. But harming another adult—her own mother—will make her see how dangerous Zoey is.

  Marge, who was in the process of standing, sits down again. “What makes you think that?”

  “I spoke with her mother. I don’t believe she’s an abusive woman. If anything, I think she’s a victim.”

  That disbelieving stare returns to Marge’s face. “When did you speak to her mother?”

  “The same weekend she was attacked,” I say, flailing for backup. “I told her to ask Zoey about the after-party. I think she did. And I think that’s what got her hurt.”

  “You told the woman you think her daughter might have committed a crime against another student?”

  “No. I didn’t even tell her what happened at the party. I just told her to ask Zoey.”

  “Well, her asking resulted in Zoey being attacked,” Marge says, standing and slamming her fist against the desk.

  “Marge, why are you so convinced—”

  “Because I believe the victim, Della,” she says, her voice shaking. “I believe the child.”

  “I hate to even suggest something like this. But sometimes—”

  “No, what you are doing is completely uncalled for. Making accusations. Tracking down her old teachers. Visiting her mother. This is a witch hunt.”

  I’m hunting something else entirely. Someone who is savvy and capable, and now she even has Marge wrapped around her finger. “I think the mother is the victim here. I’m not making these accusations based on one event.”

  She stands by my door, looking back at me. “I’m sorry, Della. You sound delusional.”

  I gasp-laugh, still not understanding why no one sees events from my perspective. Marge is now the second friend of mine in the past week to dismiss my allegations and label me as insane. But the only emotion larger than my sadness is my fear. My worry for her. Because she’s put herself in a trap, and only I can see it.

  “You might not believe me. But at least consider what I’m saying. She has a violent history. I think she’s assaulted one student, harassed others. She hurt her own mother.” Now standing by my classroom door, I open it to offer Marge an exit. “And now she’s living in your house. Be careful.”

  “You can’t just go around making allegations, Della,” she says as she walks past me. “You’re the one who should be careful.”

  To say I’m on edge would be an understatement. My desire to cry grows stronger when I’m alone. One of the worst feelings to have is the idea you might be crazy. It’s not self-imposed. It’s a marker given to you by others. And once you have it, no one ever really sees past it. One… two… three.

  I’ve been here before. This exact place of trying to prove I’m not wrong, that a dangerous person is out there. No one listened to me fast enough last time, and I’m convinced the outcome will be just as catastrophic this time around. The thought of seeing Zoey in a few minutes makes me physically ill, and I feel as though I might get sick. Four… five… six. Oh, screw it.

  With only minutes remaining before the morning bell rings, I grab my cell phone and dial the main office.

  “Victory Hills High School,” says Heather, our school receptionist.

  “It’s Della Mayfair. I don’t know what’s come over me, but I’m not feeling well. I’ve not had time to call a substitute—”

  “Hey, Della,” she says, cutting me off. “We can find you one, if you need.”

  “Would it be a problem?” I ask. I never take a day without making proper preparations first.

  “Not at all. I’ll announce for your classes to report to the library until someone arrives.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “There’s an emergency lesson plan in my filing cabinet.”

  “Get some rest.” Heather is nowhere near as talkative as the secretary at Boone County Elementary School, but she’s equally effective. I grab my bag and rush to the parking lot. By the time first block commences, I’m already on my way home.

  Twenty-Nine

  Fall 2005

  The summer after Dad died was different. I still felt his absence. An almost tangible sense of loss in everything I did. There were no more musical interruptions. There were no more morning chats. Now sixteen, I was able to drive. I drove Dad’s station wagon, which made me proud and sad. I worked my first job at the concessions stand at the local movie theater, scooping popcorn and drizzling butter over the kernels. Just as we settled into our new roles, everything changed again. Dad was gone, but Brian would soon be gone, too.

  Brian welcomed college with open arms. He’d been a standout in Wilsonville for years, but that was getting old. He wanted to impress new people, exceed new expectations. He wasn’t going far. Sterling Cove University was only two hours away. Bordering the shoreline, the campus was known for both its scenic setting and party atmosphere. Still, the college had a rigorous program. While most Wilsonville students would drop out after freshman year, the ones that did graduate entered the workforce with impressive resumés. It’s why Danny was also attending SCU, hoping it would be an appropriate precursor for medical school.

  On the morning he was due to leave, Mom woke up early to prepare breakfast. When I walked downstairs, Brian was already at the table. I wiped away sleep from my face with a knuckle. Mom and Brian appeared fully awake.

  “I just can’t believe my baby boy is going to college,” Mom said, her tone fake but cheery. Her eyes danced from Brian to me. “Pancake or waffle?”

  “Waffle,” I said, taking my seat at the table. I knew it was an important morning when she was offering both.

  “I’ll take another pancake, Mom,” Brian said, snapping a strip of bacon with his teeth.

  “Are you nervous?” I asked him.

  “Excited more than anything,” he said. He was lying. I could tell. His nostrils flared, and his eyebrows arched slightly. Brian wanted to appear casual, but he had the butterflies of every other eighteen-year-old in his position.

  “You’re going to love it,” Mom said. She took the top pancake off her stack and put it on Brian’s plate. “I’m telling you, when people say college was the best time of their life, they’re not lying.” She took a bite of food. “Until you have kids, of course.”

  “Do you think you’re going to miss me?” Brian asked. He didn’t look at either of us directly. A person listening in would think the question was directed to Mom, but I sensed he was more interested in an answer from me.

  “Of course, darling,” she said. She lifted the carafe and refilled his juice. Brian smiled, then looked in my direction.

  “Sure,” I said, taking the last sip from my glass. It was a lie, but my response came off more convincing than Brian’s denials of nervousness. “Will you miss us?”

  “Sure.” He didn’t break eye contact. So many lies had been tossed around at this breakfast I wasn’t sure what was the truth. I just knew my brother was leaving—less than a year after Dad had left for good—and my life was about to change once again.

  An hour later, and they were gone. Mom followed him to campus in her car, leaving me behind. Her car was packed full of junk she’d bought for his dorm. She said we’d plan a visit sometime later in the semester.

  I walked back inside the house. Dad was gone. Now Brian was gone, too. Mom was coming back. But the two of us living together would be a completely new dynamic. Like two animals at the zoo being regrouped into one cage. She’d struggled since Dad’s death. I hadn’t seen her cry in three months, but that worried me. I was concerned her medicine numbed her more than it should.

  They’d been gone maybe ten minutes when I heard a knock at the door. I walked to the front and recognized the petite body bobbing behind the glass.

  “Amber?” I asked when I opened the door.

  She was facing the road, probably noting what cars were absent from the driveway. Her
blonde hair was now shoulder-length. When she heard her name, she turned to look at me. Her eyes were swollen from crying.

  “Hi, Dell.” She tried to sound casual and calm, but her appearance ruined that. I hadn’t seen her in weeks. She and Brian broke things off not long after Dad’s funeral. I didn’t know why, and I didn’t particularly care.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, stepping onto the porch.

  Amber, by all accounts, wasn’t one to take a breakup lying down. Whatever poor classmate had taken my place as her best friend had probably heard all about it in recent weeks. I didn’t want their relationship details. I’d learned enough after Dad’s funeral.

  “Is Brian still here?” she asked, her eyes covered in black smudges.

  “He just left for SCU,” I said, leaning against the stoop.

  “Damn,” she said, lifting her hands to her temple and lightly pulling on her hair. She was no longer addressing me, rather reacting in front of me. She mumbled, “I really need to talk to him.”

  “If he had something to say, I’m sure he would have said it.” I turned to go back inside.

  “It’s not about him,” she yelled. “It’s about what I have to say.” She stopped talking and broke into sobs.

  I took a step closer. Amber wasn’t her normal, dramatic self. I couldn’t spot one name brand article of clothing. I’d mistaken the darkness around her eyes as mascara. Upon further inspection, I realized her face was bare and the smudges around her eyes were circles from lack of sleep. She wasn’t crying for an audience, as she’d been known to do; she was genuinely sobbing. The type of cry that made even someone like Amber appear ugly.

  “What do you have to tell him?” I asked. I’d seen Amber cry over lots of things. She could conjure an almost Mom-level of hysteria, but I’d never seen her like this.

  She sucked in three quick breaths and wiped her cheeks. “He’s gone now. That’s all that matters.” She turned and walked into the street.

  “Wait,” I said, following her. I’d misjudged. Amber was holding back, which was something she never did. Something was wrong. “Amber, wait. Talk to me.”

  She stopped and whipped around. “Just stay the hell away from me,” she said. “You and Brian stay away from me.”

  She crossed her arms and pulled her jacket tight across her torso. She marched in the direction of her house and didn’t turn back.

  Thirty

  Now

  Over the weekend, I try to forget about Victory Hills. Each time Zoey or Darcy enters my brain, I push them away. One… two… three. Or when I think about my tense conversation with Marge. Four… five… six. Instead, I focus on Danny. I focus on the baby, which according to the app hasn’t grown much in size. The lungs and brain and organs are forming. The little heart is beating. I don’t sense any of this activity, until a pang of nausea beckons me to the bathroom.

  On Monday, I dread entering first block. I dread seeing Zoey. All I want to do is scream at her, let her know I see her for who she is. She might be able to fool her classmates and Pam and Marge. But I see her.

  She’s quiet when she arrives, as are all the other students. In fact, I don’t think they’ve been this quiet since the first week of school, or maybe the week of Darcy’s attack. Zoey walks to the back of the room and takes the seat closest to Darcy. Adam’s former seat. When Adam arrives, he doesn’t react. He finds a spot on the front row and looks forward. He clearly doesn’t like that Zoey and Darcy are becoming friends. Zoey must find pleasure in disrupting two lives. Add in mine, and that makes three.

  By the time fourth block arrives, I’m sitting alone in my room trying not to retch. I have a horrible headache, further provoked by my inability to eat lunch. I lean back in my seat, close my eyes and take several deep breaths. Just as I’m beginning to feel better, a shriek in the hallway distracts me.

  There shouldn’t be any students in the halls, and yet I hear a voice. It sounds angry. I open my door to find Adam and Darcy. Every time I’ve seen him since the dance, Adam has looked defeated, with slumped shoulders and swollen eyes. He looks the same now as he leans against a locker. He wipes his cheeks.

  Darcy is the person who yelled, and not because she’s in shock or pain. She’s angry. Adam stands there barely reacting, allowing Darcy to shout through the empty hall.

  “What is going on?” I ask, in my best teacher voice. “You two should be in class.”

  Darcy hears my voice and turns. Her cheeks are flushed and the skin around her eyes is puffy.

  Another teacher, Coach Gabe, starts walking from the other end of the hallway.

  “Adam?” he asks. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” he answers. He is the definition of not fine. And Darcy is the definition of enraged.

  “Get back to class,” Coach Gabe says. “Both of you.”

  Adam turns and slinks down the hall, but Darcy releases another cry. Coach Gabe’s usually calm demeanor is useless when confronted by Darcy’s raw emotion. He looks at me, his wide eyes asking for help.

  “Darcy,” I start quietly. “Where are you supposed to be right now?”

  “M-Mrs. Lakes,” she blubbers, trying without success to catch her breath.

  “Why don’t you come in here for a few minutes,” I suggest, walking toward her. “You should calm down before returning to class.”

  Coach Gabe nods, silently supporting my suggestion. Sending a student back to a class this upset would only worsen the situation. “I’ll let Mrs. Lakes know where you are,” he says, nodding at us both.

  Darcy walks inside my classroom. I follow her and shut the door.

  She sits on the front row and slings her purse on the ground. She immediately leans forward, placing her head on the tabletop, and sobs. I say nothing, allowing her to cry or curse or whatever she feels she needs to do to purge the gnawing feeling inside. I don’t understand her pain, but I know she has it. I’ve seen other people display it before.

  After what feels like several minutes, her breathing stabilizes, and she lifts her head.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Mayfair,” she says, and her face sours into another frown. “I shouldn’t have been yelling like that.”

  “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” I ask, wanting desperately to push but knowing I can’t.

  “It’s just—” she starts, still clinging to her own body. “Adam has been really possessive. He keeps pressing me about what happened that night.”

  I roll closer to my desk and lean back, sinking into my own listening position. “The night of the dance?”

  “I know people think Adam hurt me, but I didn’t believe he was capable. Yesterday, I found out Adam sent pictures of me from that night to half his contacts. Everything was finally going back to normal. Why would he do that unless he was the one who attacked me? It’s like he wants me to suffer.”

  I remember Pam saying people were passing around pictures of Darcy. If she were drugged, there’s no telling what state she was in. Clearly not able to give consent. Adam wouldn’t want to further embarrass her. Even if he’s angry and hurt, I can’t imagine him being vindictive like that.

  “Were the pictures taken from his phone?”

  “No, but people had forwarded him pictures that night. He swears he didn’t send them out again.” She rolls her eyes and wipes her cheeks. “He said someone took his phone out of his locker during track practice. I want to believe him, but it just doesn’t make sense. Who would want to set him up like that?”

  Zoey seems like the type. Being on the track team, she’d have easy access to the locker room. She’s been perpetuating the idea Adam attacked Darcy since the dance. She wants to make sure someone else takes the fall for her crimes.

  “Take some time to think about it,” I say, hesitantly. I can’t tell her my real theory. “There might be some truth to what Adam says.”

  “The other teachers don’t ask me directly, but they hint at that night all the time. It’s like they’re afraid of me because they don’t know
what happened and they’re assuming the worst. You’ve never acted that way.” Darcy looks up, her eyes appearing empty and desperate. She wants to share her story. Perhaps she’s wanted to all along but hasn’t found the right person.

  “You’ll talk when you’re ready,” I say. Unlike her other teachers, I do know what happened that night. Because I’ve read Zoey’s note.

  “After the dance, Adam and I got into a fight at my house. Just the stupid stuff we always fight about. He left, and I ended up getting drunk. He keeps thinking whatever happened after he left was his fault. Maybe I wouldn’t have gotten hurt if he’d stayed.” She bites her lip and looks down again. “Maybe he’s right.”

  “You don’t remember much,” I say. “Right?”

  She takes a deep breath. “I remember drinking. A lot. I remember hanging out with different people. And once I started to feel woozy, someone walked me outside.”

  As she speaks, my mind remembers the words on the anonymous paper. How they detailed Darcy’s purple dress and her unstable balance. I remember another person who once trusted me with their story, and my regret I didn’t do enough to help. I feel my eyes water and clear my throat to gain composure.

  “Do you know who was with you?” I ask.

  “No,” she says, almost angrily. “My next full memory was at the hospital. Mom was making a big fuss about my leg.” She rolls her eyes, a teenager critical of her parent’s reaction even in such an unthinkable circumstance. “Within hours, everyone in town was talking about what happened. Everyone at school. I didn’t even get to come to terms with it. People were just making assumptions.”

  Her fists clench, and I see her anger at being excluded from her own narrative.

  “People talk, Darcy,” I say. “And it’s unfair.”

  “But they don’t talk to me,” she shouts. “That’s the problem. They talk about me. They blame me. Like, maybe if I weren’t drunk, I’d be able to figure out what happened. Everybody at that party was drunk, but I was the only one who ended up getting hurt.”